


Love is my religion

by akbars



Category: Original Work
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hostage Situations, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Prisoner of War, Sexual Violence, Slow Build, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akbars/pseuds/akbars
Summary: Cut a long story short: a Viking commander falling in love with a Slav prisoner. This is a story about the passion that knows no geographical boundaries, cultural differences or religious affiliation. It’s about the force that drives people to renounce their beliefs and to give up their loyalties for the sake of the love of their life, even if this love might be unrequited...





	1. Chapter 1

_The idea of this story has been haunting my mind for some time. As a reader, I was not able to find a similar story so I decided to put my idea down into words._

_It’s my first fiction written in the English language so don’t be too harsh._

_The story is un-betaed. The plot lacks historical accuracy, word usage can be wrong for this historical period and there can be possible lexical and grammar mistakes._

_And of course, see the tags for triggers._

_If you don’t like it, please don’t read it._

**Chapter 1**

A young man wearing a full Slavic military gear was sitting on a rock at a commander-in-chief’s tent, head bowed and a helmet in his blood-stained hands. The atmosphere around him was filled with the aftertaste of the past battle: the metallic clang of weapons still rang in ears, the grunts and cries of wounded men could be heard, the coppery smell of blood permeated the air.

The sitting man was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that it looked like he was not aware of the turmoil surrounding him. His face was detached but there was obviously an inner struggle in his eyes. The hands holding the helmet were shaking.

A ladybird landed on the helmet in his hands and started to crawl along the helmet. The bug reached the young man’s forefinger and climbed it. The young man’s eyes focused on the bug and it felt like he finally woke out of his thoughts. The ladybird went to the man’s end of the forefinger, stopped for a while as if hesitated, unfolded wings and flew off. The young man followed it with his eyes all the way until it disappeared in the sky.  Something has shifted in him. There was no struggle in his eyes any more but strong determination. Determination that bordered with a suicider’s resignation. His hands didn’t shake.

The young man got up off the rock, threw a glance at the battlefield, took a long deep breath and put the helmet on.

*********************************

Bjorg’s eyes lazily browsed the field. The battle has already ended; he was sitting on a log at the very edge of the front line wiping crimson blood from his axe with grass. Bjorg was so used to seeing gore and destroyed flesh, feeling the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and hearing death cries during the raids, that despite adrenaline still pumping through his veins after the past battle his heartbeat was steady and his thoughts were flowing like a calm, placid river.

This raid was getting tiresome, Bjorg pondered: both armies – the Slavs and the Vikings – were equally strong and unyielding and there seemed to be no end to this standoff. Headed by Knyaz1 Belovolod, the Slavs were standing to death and were not backing off an inch of their land. Konung Sven, who led the Viking raid, was famous for being a cunning and uncompromising warlord who knew no loss; the city behind the Slav army was rich and was placed rather conveniently, at the trade route from the Varangians to the Greeks, – there was no chance the Scandinavian king was going to give up his goal.

Being an experienced war dog, Bjorg had a gut feeling that there soon was going to be a breaking point in this confrontation and he was mentally getting ready for it. And when he heard someone call out his name and saw one of Konung Sven’s son Fritjof’s henchmen running hard towards him across the battlefield, he wondered that this moment has probably come.

“Knyaz. Belovolod. Sent an envoy. They want. To negotiate,” the man said panting heavily after a long run.

***********************************

He didn’t expect that it would be so easy. Having left his army’s campsite behind, Miroslav approached the Norse’s lookout sentry on horseback holding the banner of his city. He pronounced a single word “Málstefna2”; the guard nodded and let him pass. He dismounted, secured the banner on the saddle; two Scandinavian warriors searched him for weapons. Miroslav’s mouth went dry and his heart skipped several beats during the search: a dagger hidden in his jackboot burnt his skin like fire. A short sigh of relief escaped his lips when the Scandinavians finished the pat-down and one of them gestured to follow him. Miroslav was escorted to a tent in the middle of the Norse’s camp. Hearing his heart beating in his ear, the young Slav pushed past the cloth flaps that covered the tent’s opening and went in. He saw three men inside: Konung Sven in the centre, on a makeshift throne, with his son Fritjof on his right side and an unfamiliar commander on his left.

Having his eyes glued on Konung, Miroslav made several steps closer towards the group and stopped. _Dear God, please help me. Give me strength and don’t let my hand waver._ Miroslav willed himself to calm down and to focus on the person sitting in front of him, the person he came here for.

“Ég heilsa þér, Konung Sven3,” Miroslav said, thankfully without a quiver in his voice. “Ég er Veligor, sendiherra af Belovolod4,” he said. “Ég kom að semja friður og…5”

“Sýndu mér andlitið þitt6,” Konung Sven interrupted him. “Ég vil sjá hver ég er að tala við7.”

“Fyrirgefðu mér8,” Miroslav said, stepping closer to the throne. He got down on one knee and made a movement as if he was going to take his helmet off. His left hand went down to his jackboot. Miroslav moved like a flash: one second he was standing on his knee and next second he was throwing himself on the man on the throne and burying the dagger up to its hilt in Konung Sven's chest.

For a fraction of second he stared in the blood-shot eyes of the dying man, then grabbed a foot rest from under the king’s feet and sprung back to get into a defensive stance. Holding the foot rest like a shield, Miroslav took stock of the situation: both men in front of him have already recovered from the initial shock and were ready to attack him.

He knew that he was doomed: escaping from the very heart of the enemy’s camp was an impossible mission at this point. But at least Miroslav could make a last-gasp effort and take two more lives with him.  

To his surprise, Fritjof suddenly lowered his weapon and nodded to the commander, prompting him to continue the attack. The other man charged at Miroslav with axes spread wide like wings. He was a skilled and ruthless soldier: his movements were laconic and quiet but blows were crushing and bone-breaking.  Warding off one deathly sledge-hammer attack after another, Miroslav realised wistfully that he was going to lose this combat.

One particularly strong axe stroke eventually smashed the foot rest into pieces in Miroslav’s hands.  Dumbfounded, he failed to notice a blow coming from the Scandinavian prince at his left side and barely managed to strike it aside. Miroslav was recollecting himself from a traitorous attack when the commander delivered a powerful blow on his head with the butt of his axe. The young man fell like a tree axed down on the ground.

“Kill him,” he heard Fritjof say through ringing in his ears.

Fighting dizziness and straining through hazy vision, Miroslav saw the commander nod and lift his axe. _This is the end_ , Miroslav thought. _Thank God, at least I managed to fulfill my mission._

 

 

**Slav language:**

Knyaz1 – a historical Slavic title, used both as a royal and noble title in different times of history and different ancient Slavic lands

**Old Norse language:**

Málstefna2\- parley

Ég heilsa þér, Konung Sven3 – I greet you, King Sven

Ég er Veligor, sendiherra af Belovolod4 – I am Veligor, envoy of Knyaz Belovolod

Ég kom að semja friður og…5 – I came to make peace and ...

Sýndu mér andlitið þitt6– Show me your face

Ég vil sjá hver ég er að tala við7 – I want to see who I'm talking to

Fyrirgefðu mér8  – Forgive me


	2. Chapter 2

Bjorg always thought that the life has taught him well and he will never be caught off balance, especially on battlefield. But this Slavic man has surprised him beyond measure. Not only did he manage to sneak a weapon past the guards but he also caught two hardened Vikings off guard. Bjorg has never seen a person who moved this fast before.  

Now Bjorg was looming over the man lying sprawled on the ground and was almost ready to land a death blow when he noticed something that made his hand stop in midair.

His opponent was conscious; he already recovered and was aware of his surroundings. What hit Bjorg is that unlike most, the fallen warrior was not begging for mercy or hailing curses in him. He was calm like a person who already resigned himself to his impending death and was ready to embrace it with open arms. He could see through the helmet eye slots that the man’s eyes were closed and heard that he was whispering something. A pre-mortem prayer, Bjorg realised.

“…помилуй мя, грешного раба твоего Мирослава…1”

Something was not right. Bjorg’s basic knowledge of the Slavic language was enough for him to understand that the man lying at his feet was not the man he thought he was fighting. People do not lie at death’s door. 

“…в руци твои, Господи, предаю дух мой. Аминь2,” the fallen warrior said and opened his eyes.

Bjorg saw confusion in the man’s eyes as if he hadn’t really expected he could ever finish the prayer. He saw that Bjorg was standing still with the weapon frozen in midair. His eyes moved from the axe to Bjorg’s face and back.

Bjorg lowered his hand. He threw a questioning glance at Fritjof.

“This is not him. This is not Veligor.”

“How do you know?”

“He used a different name in his pre-mortem prayer. He’s a Miroslav.”

“Miroslav?” there was curiosity in Fritjof’s voice.  “Are you sure?”

Bjorg hunkered down and reached out his hand to the sprawled man’s helmet. The warrior visibly flinched and made a movement to prevent him from taking the helmet off. Fritjof partly unsheathed his sword as a warning. The Slav stilled. Bjorg removed the helmet to reveal a young face covered with dirt and blood stains. The warrior had a rough-featured but oddly attractive face with a straight-edged nose and high cheekbones. His straight straw-coloured hair was covered with dust; a rather deep gash lay on his forehead. Grey eyes revealed a mixture of emotions: bewilderment, defiance, and resolve.

 _Is he halfwit?_ Bjorg thought. _Young and not experienced enough._ _What he thought he could do against me?_

“I can’t believe it!” Bjorg was pulled out of his thoughts by Fritjof’s exclamation. The Viking also squatted down beside Bjorg and slapped his thighs. “Odin favours us. This is the younger son of Knyaz Belovolod. Now we have a perfect leverage against the old bear!”

Upon hearing Fritjof’s words, the young man started to vigorously shake his head no and there was obvious fear in his eyes now. But the fear was not for his life, Bjorg noted, but clearly for the consequences that his identity reveal could bring.

“Oh no, no. You can deny all you want,” Fritjof said with a smirk seeing the young man’s desperation. “I have a perfect memory for faces. I saw you during one of our visits to Krasnograd. You are Belovolod’s favourite son. Your father will have to come to terms with our conditions once he finds out we have you.”

As if being unspelled, the young man sat up and lashed out against Bjorg trying to reach for the Scandinavian’s axe. Acting on reflex, Bjorg ducked the punch, and knocked the Slav out with a left jab to his temple.

*********************************

A dull ache inside his skull pulled Miroslav out of his peaceful darkness. He moved slightly and a sharp pain in his left temple made him wince and roll himself into a ball. He tentatively opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a small barn, lying on a coarse-canvas mat stuffed with straw.

 _Where am I? What’s happened? Why does my head ache so badly?_ Several thoughts flitted around in Miroslav’s head all at once.

He rolled on his back and put heels of his hands on his eyes. Suddenly a myriad of images overwhelmed him: his father’s wrinkled face marred with the deepest despair he has ever seen; his elder brother, Dalemir, pleading for his help; his loyal manservant, Zhdan, helping him to get dressed for the battle; a blur of swords, shields and axes; a crushing blow on his head that knocked him off his feet, and a tall dark figure looming over him like death itself.

He was supposed to die, but did not and the reason for his now delayed death was that his identity had been revealed. Miroslav grated his teeth and cursed himself for being so careless. _Why hadn’t the Viking commander killed him off right away? Why had he hesitated?_ Now Miroslav will be used as a pawn against his father. Fritjof was right when he said that the younger son was Belovolod’s soft spot.  Miroslav knew that his father loved him with all his heart and Miroslav loved him back just as dearly. But at the moment the young man hoped that his father will find the strength to put his people’s interests above his personal ones and will not give in to his fatherly feelings.

 _Dear Lord, why are you putting me through this?_ _Why are you punishing me now?_ Miroslav thought but instantly reproached himself for being weak and doubtful. If this was part of God’s divine plan, he will follow it and do everything possible to play his part in it. After all, God helps him who helps himself. He still had a chance to escape this fate or at least die trying.  

To begin with, Miroslav looked around the barn, trying to find something that he could use as a weapon. The Vikings had stripped him of his armour and boots, leaving him only in his white smallclothes. Surprisingly, they hadn’t removed the cross from around his neck.

The clicking sound, announcing an unlocked door, interrupted his thoughts. A lean figure of Konung Sven’s son, Fritjof, appeared in the door frame, followed by his henchmen.

Miroslav was no coward; never in his life had he quailed in the face of danger even when outnumbered but at the moment he couldn’t help the small tremor that started to rise in him in the presence of this single Scandinavian.  He remembered his first impression when he had seen Fritjof during one of Konung Sven delegation’s visits to Krasnograd: the Norse resembled a predator, animalistically cruel and unpredictable, ready to go at his prey at any moment.

“Well hello, princeling,” Fritjof said with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I hate to give you bad news but the person you killed today was not Konung Sven.”

 

**Slav language:**

 …помилуй мя, грешного раба твоего Мирослава…1 – …have mercy on me, the sinner Miroslav...

…в руци твои, Господи, предаю дух мой. Аминь2 – …into your hands I commend my spirit. Amen


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting with Konung Sven was surprisingly short. The chieftain was infuriated but satisfied at the same time: infuriated that his doppelganger had been so easily killed and satisfied that his decoy had worked. However, when he was told that the failed assassin they had seized was none other than one of Belovolod’s sons, his face became thoughtful and serious.

“Yes, I remember him. Belovolod loves his younger son; we can use him as a bargaining chip and trade him for the city. Keep him locked but do not harm him yet.”

Having addressed some other issues, he ordered to send a message to Belovolod’s camp. Bjorg was about to leave the chieftain’s tent, when he heard Konung Sven mutter, as if to himself, “Whatever Belovolod decides, the boy cannot live. I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep, I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.” With a short nod, Bjorg went out of the tent.

The imprisoned Slav was kept in one of the barns of a small village near which the Viking camp was laid out. Bjorg was walking towards the village, and his mind was filled with troubled thoughts. He never considered himself a sympathetic person but at the moment he felt pity for this brave young man. He knew that a slow and torturous death was coming for the Slav and now wished he hadn’t hesitated when he had lifted his axe to end his life.

He passed the guards outside the barn and was about to enter it when he heard some noise inside. The doors were unlocked and there were people inside. Bjorg gave a frustrated sigh. Fritjof, of course. Konung Sven’s son couldn’t find better entertainment than to torment a new helpless victim. He even missed the council to indulge himself in his sick ways.

Bjorg opened the door a crack and strained his eyes and ears to see what was going on inside the barn. One of Fritjof’s henchmen who was obscuring the view moved aside and Bjorg saw that the young Slav was standing with his hands tied to a hook hanging from a ceiling beam. He was stripped to his waist. A whip in his hands, Fritjof was circling around the restrained man like a predator around a prey.  

“…imagine how hurt you feel that you failed your task. What a shame to sacrifice your life for nothing. You will die knowing that your city will fall and your people will be slaughtered…” Fritjof’s words came to Bjorg’s ears.

The Slav kept silent and was stoically bearing the verbal torment but his tensed muscles and sharp intakes of breath gave away his apprehensiveness and suppressed fear of the beastlike Scandinavian prince. Bjorg couldn’t help but feel respect for the young man’s spirit.

Fritjof stopped walking around the prisoner and moved closer to the Slav, his face barely inches away from him. The young man didn’t let his gaze waver, returning a glare filled with daring and spite. Fritjof poked the whip at a cross hanging on the prisoner’s chest. “Is this how your pathetic god shows gratitude to his allegiants for their faithful service? Lets you down and then leaves you at the mercy of your enemies?” Abruptly, he tore the cross from around the younger man’s neck and threw it aside.

It was obvious that Fritjof’s taunting words finally hit home. The Slav broke eye contact and stooped his head. But clearly the Viking prince was not going to stop his sick mind game; without removing the whip from the prisoner’s chest, he moved it to a cross-shaped scar covering the right side of the young man’s ribcage, just over his heart.

“What, one cross is not enough? The more, the better?” Grabbing the Slav’s chin, Fritjof forced him to look up at him. “You will die a slow and painful death, torn into pieces in front of your dear father’s eyes. It will break his heart and destroy your army’s spirit. Your people are doomed, princeling, and you are the reason for that.”

Closing his eyes, Bjorg sighed. Step by step Fritjof was pushing the young man to the breaking point. Bjorg has seen it many times before and the outcome was predictable: sooner or later, everyone was falling apart. However, the Slav’s next actions surprised him. Jerking his chin out of the other man’s grasp, the Slav spoke calmly in his own language, “Ты можешь сломать мое тело, но не мой дух. Ты можешь завоевать землю, но не народ1,” and spat in Fritjof’s smug face.

A strange feeling of satisfaction filled Bjorg’s heart. He never really liked Fritjof, or more precisely, despised the man for his perverted methods and unnecessary cruelty bordering with sadism. And at the moment he was fascinated by the Slav’s display of spiritual strength in the face of this pathetic monster.

But Bjorg knew that the Slav was going to pay dearly for his act of bravery. Wiping the spit off of his face, Fritjof punched the hanging man in the pit of his stomach. A short grunt escaped the prisoner’s lips, and his entire body jerked, stomach muscles curling and legs giving way beneath him. But Fritjof didn’t stop; he moved behind the Slav’s back, wrapped the whip around the other man’s neck, squeezed it and hissed in the younger man’s ear, “Not very wise, princeling. You will pay for this. I will flog you until you are a bloody mess and then fuck your virgin ass. You will wish you are dead before I’m done with you.”

Fritjof let the young man go, took several steps backwards and was about to land the first blow, when Bjorg pushed the doors open and entered, freezing the Viking prince in his place, “Fritjof, stop. The boy cannot be harmed. These are Konung Sven’s orders.”

***************************************

Desperately pulling air into his lungs and fighting nausea, Miroslav was trying to will his body to calm down and to welcome a certain death that he had willingly drawn upon himself by provoking the Viking prince. And only when Fritjof’s threat hissed in his ear reached his cloudy brain, the hair on his neck stood up and his mind went into full-blown panic. Once again Miroslav cursed the man who had let him live and had doomed him to such a shameful and miserable ending. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that hardly noticed when the door opened and the very man Miroslav had been cursing appeared at the doorstep.  

As soon as the meaning of the commander’s words registered in his mind, he felt uncalled-for gratitude for the man. Never being flogged in his entire life, Miroslav was not sure that he would be able to stay strong enough to endure the torture and to avoid turning into a pathetic wimp. But he was still dismayed by the second half of the threat. Being sodomised for the sake of pure punishment – what kind of sick person will do that? The mere idea of being sexually abused by this Viking made his blood run cold.

“Indeed?” Miroslav heard Fritjof say. “My father said so? Since when have you become his message deliverer, Bjorg?” The Viking prince stepped around Miroslav, approached the commander and stopped, coming face to face with the other man. “This Slav dog will die any day now. What difference does it make if I scratch him a little bit?” the Viking prince said venomously but what bewildered Miroslav is that although clearly Fritjof was superior to the commander, he sounded as if he was asking the other man’s permission.

“Your father’s order was clear. No harm should be done to him. We are going to trade him for the city. He must remain unscathed,” Bjorg replied impassively. A feeling of relief washed over Miroslav. He suddenly realised that the mere prospect of being left at the mercy of the frightful Viking prince horrified him to his very core. It would be worse than death.

“So be it.” Fritjof looked back at Miroslav and said with a cruel grin. “It looks like you have a protector now. But don’t get excited too soon; I will make sure you will pay a heavy price for your insolence.” His gaze lingered lewdly on Miroslav’s lips and then went down to his bare chest and cross-shaped scar. As if hypnotised, Miroslav stared at the Viking, his guts twisted with terror at the threat. Giving a signal to his henchmen, Fritjof turned around and left the barn without saying a word to the commander.

Closing his eyes, Miroslav exhaled a breath he was unaware he'd been holding during this entire ordeal. A sudden wave of tiredness overtook him, the headache that he forgot having lifted like burning mist. Miroslav forgot about the other man’s presence and came to his senses only when he felt a hand on his wrists and heard a knife cutting the rope that tied his hands to the hook.

Feeling the need to take his anger on somebody, Miroslav scowled at the person who just moments ago had saved him from the imminent torture. The commander’s (what was his name, Bjorg or something?) face being close to his, Miroslav channeled all his hatred into the gaze, looking daggers at the other man. Everything he had done was in vain: Konung Sven was still alive; Miroslav was taken prisoner by the Viking army and is now likely to be used as a bargaining chip against his father. _All of this wouldn’t have happened if you had finished your death blow,_ Miroslav thought looking venomously at the Viking commander. 

The other man was watching him carefully, a clear glimpse of amusement in his blue eyes. Miroslav quietly studied the commander’s face, noting the strange combination of weather-beaten, hardened features and soft wrinkles in the edges of the eye caused by smiling. Bjorg was a strange amalgam of contradictory traits, Miroslav thought tiredly. It was hard to believe that the commander who was wreaking havoc in cold blood during a military combat could be humane beyond the battlefield.

The rope being cut, Miroslav’s arms fell down listlessly and he sank to the floor as his knees doubled up under him. He felt numbness and tingling in his strained muscles. An unbearable urge to lie down and to have some sleep washed over him. He felt both physically and emotionally drained. The calm voice made Miroslav to look up:

“I don’t expect any gratitude. You will die but I will make sure you die a better death that this,” Bjorg’s looming face was all serious now, his now unreadable eyes locked with Miroslav’s.  With these words said, the Viking commander put the knife in the sheath, turned around and left the barn.

For a while, Miroslav stayed in his kneeling position and stared at the closed doors, taken aback by Bjorg’s last statement. After some time he half stumbled, half crawled towards the canvas mat, laid there and sank into a dreamless sleep. 

 

 

**Slav language:**

Ты можешь сломать мое тело, но не мой дух. Ты можешь завоевать землю, но не народ1 – You can break my body but you can’t break my spirit. You can conquer the land but you can’t conquer the people


End file.
